“Under another name?”
“Yes.”
“Mrs. Peltham?”
“No, not Mrs. Peltham. Mrs. Hushman.”
“Who’s Mr. Hushman?” Mason asked.
She lowered her eyes, then after a moment said, “Mr. Peltham.”
There was the sound of a car being driven rapidly past the house. The tires screamed a protest as the machine was whisked around the turntable. Della Street, getting up from the chair in which she was sitting, crossed over to the window to look out.
“A police car,” she said to Mason.
Mason’s eyes narrowed. “Mrs. Tidings,” he said, “I want you to promise me one thing. Make absolutely no statements. Refuse to answer any questions.”
“But surely, Mr. Mason, you don’t think…”